


Black Flag

by nishiki



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken, Canon Related, Connor didn't burn Haytham's portrait, Connor meets Anne Bonny, Connor meets Shay, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Mourning, Post-Canon, Regret, The Homestead people are worried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:23:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after his father's death, Connor still finds himself mourning and his friends worried for him. Deciding that he wants to go see his father's birth house, he meets an old sailor who instead points him to Charleston, where he meets an old woman named Anne Bonny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to revamp the story, for I was not satisfied with how it turned out.
> 
> inspired by this beautiful piece of art by BB22Andy on Twitter: 
> 
> https://67.media.tumblr.com/37129e3045b4a34ddcc612a113618049/tumblr_o9z00z3XDd1rwq84jo1_r1_1280.png
> 
> Please go and check out the Artist!

Ellen’s daughter, Maria, was the first to notice it. One day she just walked up to her mother, while Ellen was working outside their house on a jacket for one of the men of their beautiful new home and asked her mother about what she had thought to be odd. It had been a wonderful early summer’s day, with a soft breeze brushing ever so gently through the trees all around their house and birds chirping from the branches, joining Ellen in her soft little hum. Ellen had met her daughter's words with concern, for Maria was not usually the type of girl who ran around gossiping about people and her own words had been far from being gossip either way. Maria had been honestly concerned, yes, worried, and that had struck a nerve in Ellen. Still, she had told her young daughter that she should not worry too much and then Maria had been off, running back to her friends, who had been waiting for her near the road to go on another adventure, wild like the wind itself and Ellen had looked after her, a tender smile on her lips. Her daughter had changed, since they had left New York for good and moved to the Homestead, following Connor's gracious invitation, and Ellen was glad that Maria's father had not left a mark on her too as he had on Ellen herself. She had to thank Connor for the way her daughter was now starting to bloom out here in Rockport, free and beautiful as she was meant to be and far, far away from the oppressive hands of her father or the soldiers roaming the streets.

The next person to notice was Prudence. As she was walking down the dirt road with little Hunter by her side, she noticed it and yet shrugged it off. It was probably nothing, she thought with her baby son clutching her hand. It was not so much that she had seen something irritating, no, it was more of a creeping little feeling. Hunter was almost three years old by now and although he was wobbly on his thick little legs, he would be gone faster than anyone would be able to stop him if she would not hold his chubby little hand. Well, Prudence knew only one person in the village who would be fast enough to catch her wild little boy if he would run off and surely, Connor Kenway, would be the man to run after a toddler with the utmost urgency as if catching a thief or a poacher, just like he did on the day of Hunter’s birth. It had been him whom she had seen on the road, him to whom she had cried out for help and it had been him, who had run off immediately, almost ignoring her horse for aid in his task as he went to fetch the doctor. She had never seen the young man as nervous as in this moment. As Prudence later sat with her husband Warren at the dinner table over a nice hot stew and some fresh bread with their son on her lap, she told him what she had seen and although she brushed her concern off immediately, Warren furrowed his brows and said nothing, as if suddenly lost in thoughts.

A little while later, after Warren had heard from his wife what she had seen - or rather experienced - he met Lance, Terry, and Godfrey at the Miles’ End for a beer. He would not come often to the tavern, but he enjoyed having the other people around him, feeling like a part of this community and knowing that every last one of them would have his back as he would have theirs. Sure, where they had been living before the people had not openly attacked them, but he and his wife had felt that they had not been welcome. It was differently here. After two pints, he finally told his friends what Prudence had said to him. It turned out that Terry and Godfrey too knew about it from their wives who had heard about it from Ellen. Yet, the three men decided that there probably was nothing wrong and continued with their usual banter.

As father Timothy opened the door to his little church one Saturday morning, he did not even get to pass the threshold as he felt a large hand on his shoulder. As he turned around he stared into the face of Robert Faulkner. Robert and the other sailors were frequent guests of the village too and some even came to the church to pray or celebrate the holy mess with him and everyone who deemed it an important part of their lives. Father Timothy was glad about every single person who came to join him. Sadly, he had never convinced the patron of this village, young Connor, to join them. He did not judge. As he had first seen Connor and understood that it was him who made the decisions for this place, he had known that they did not share the same beliefs and he had accepted it, grateful that Connor seemed to see it the same way as he. He had allowed him to built his church, after all, even helped to build it with his own hands. Not for himself, but for the people who were living on his land. Connor Kenway was a very generous man. Some might argue that he was because he tried to repent for his sins this way, but Father Timothy had decided to believe that Connor was acting the way he did because he felt it in his heart to do so. Connor too did not judge, that was probably what made this place as strong and united as it was. »I make it quick, Father.« Robert had addressed him with his raspy voice the years he had spent at sea or drunken in his hud, manifested in the timbre of his voice. A bit of his breakfast hung in his beard and shook with each syllable. »I am worried for the Captain. He is not acting his usual self.« And Father Timothy had thought about it for a minute or two. He had wanted to say that they all had days in which they were not acting like themselves, but he had felt that it was not the right thing to say. Sometimes they would _lose_ themselves.

It was differently than usually when they would all meet at the tavern. Usually, there was laughter and music and chatter and the clinking of glasses and scraping of cutlery over the dishes. Tonight the feeling was a little off. They sat around the tavern and all of them seemed a little lost in thought. The only loud voices came from the sailors that were sitting near the bar were Oliver was cleaning the glasses or playing a game of cards somewhere in a corner. »It's true.« Myriam suddenly stated as the whole group had quieted down a bit. Next to her sat her husband Norris who was just taking a small sip of his beer. »I don't think that this is just a phase, you know?«

»Usually not a day would have gone by in which he would not have run across the fields or suddenly jump down from some tree. He had me startled quite a few times in the past, let me tell you!« Diana laughed. »And the influence he had on the boys! Well, I must say that I was first a little relieved as this started to fade away from his usual behavior, but now… I start to miss it.«

»He is not around as much anymore.« Big Dave chimed in with his large forehead covered in wrinkles. They would usually not see the smith worried, not after everything he had gone through in the past. »It feels different. He keeps to himself more and more lately. I hardly see him anymore.«

»He promised he would help me with something.« Dr. White sighed. »But I assume he forgot about it because he never came.« There was a low murmur of agreement sweeping through the tavern. It was Ellen who spoke up again next.

»Connor has done much for our community, for each and every one of us. He was always there to help us, wasn't he?  Yes, he is not behaving like his usual self as of late, but instead of sitting here and complaining about how he did not come to help us with something, shouldn't we walk up the hill and see what we can do for him?«

Every last one of their lives had been touched by that stubborn young man, who was, in most cases, younger than the people who he had helped out of the sheer kindness of his heart, as it seemed despite the things each and every one of them had first feared when they had come here to look at the Homestead. Yet, despite his youth, every one of them looked at Connor for direction, they looked to him when there were problems, they would go and ask _him_ for help. Not even the real master of the house on the hill, Achilles, had had this impact on all of them, though just as much respect. And yet they all had just taken and taken and taken from Connor. It was true. They had not seen him around for a long time. It had been weeks since they had last seen him hunt in the woods or climb up some tree for whatever inane reason. They all missed his constant presence in the village. Suddenly it felt as if they had lost their guardian and none of them even knew what had provoked this change. Was it the old man’s death a few years ago? Or was it something entirely different? Whatever it was, this night, they all left the tavern together and started their march up the hill.

**\- End of Prolog -**


	2. Part I

**1784, Rockport Massachusetts**

The intervention had come out of the blue - at least to Connor. His friends and neighbors had gone up the hill in the middle of the night and although Connor had been far from going to bed, he had still not expected the sudden arrival of them. He had been down in the basement as he had heard the knock on his front door. He would admit that he was spending a lot of time down there as of late. He had not expected that he would see the day when his friends would stomp up the hill to confront him about not running around the village like a maniac anymore.

He had not even realized that he had stopped going down into the village as much as he had used to. He had not realized that he had stopped helping out his friends as much as he had used to. And yet, as Ellen asked him in her soft, concerned voice if everything was alright with him, he did not know what to tell them. All those nice people that he had convinced to live on this piece of land knew nothing about the fight he had been fighting for the better part of his still young life. He was twenty-eight years now and for the last fifteen years, he had known nothing but to fight, nothing but his thirst for vengeance, nothing but his desire to destroy the Templars once and for all. Now that he seemed to have succeeded, he felt strange. The brotherhood was growing again, his recruits were talented young people with a great sense of determination and teamwork. And he … what was with him? He had reached his goal and yet, he did not feel accomplished.

When he had been younger, he had been sure he would feel pride when he would finally have ended Charles Lee’s life and yet, all he felt was regret. He did not feel regret for having ended Lee’s life, but for the way he had handled things. Revenge only ever led to tragedy, at least now he knew that. he had learned this lesson the hard way and it had cost him his father. Now, with Achilles gone, he was the one person responsible for the brotherhood in America. He was the Mentor now and this burden had not yet fully sunken in. It had been easier to carry with Achilles still around.

He had spent the last two years building up what had been destroyed, helping out wherever he could. He had done anything that had been in his power to busy his mind and his body so that he would not need to think. And while he had been doing that, he had somehow lost touch with the people he cared for the most: his friends and neighbors.

Rest, they had said, after he had told them that he was tired of the war that had been raging in this land. It would not be the last. Now, that the American people were on their own, there would soon be other wars. Mankind was destined to fight against their own kin. Friend against friend, brother against brother, father against son. Like this, it would continue for all eternity. The wheel would keep spinning. It was hard not to lose hope thinking like this.

Rest, they had insisted, you have accomplished everything you wanted to accomplish. And though they had not said it, he imagined they had whenever he would look back on that night as they had all gathered in his dining room by a crackling fire: Rest, your fight is over. Rest, the Templars are gone. Rest, you deserve it.

He knew that his friends meant him no harm and that they might even mean what they had been saying, that he deserved to rest for a while, that his fight was over and that everything would now change. But was it? To him, it seemed that his fight would never be over and that it did not end just because the Templars were gone. There was a new threat to the colonies lurking behind every corner each day it seemed, no matter where he would look. And even if he was not strolling through the streets of Boston or New York to see the deprivation of the poor or witness the cruelty of some more powerful men and women, he felt himself being haunted by the ghosts of the past that he had wished to leave behind him and move on to a better life and a bright future.

He grew tired of friends asking him about the way he imagined his future, asking him why he had not yet settled down, found himself a nice wife and had some kids. He grew tired of Dobby’s little teases every time they would meet. He grew tired of the other _bachelors_ in the village whining about their fate. The truth was, he was terrified even thinking about having a family of his own. How could one like him even dream of having a family without this dream ending in tragedy? In the golden days of his life, Achilles had seemed to have it all. A wife, a son, a house and a flourishing brotherhood and yet, all of this had crumbled and been destroyed in the blink of an eye.

It was not just his fear that enemies of the Assassins might one day attack him and his family, or that he might die a violent death and leave his family behind without protection. No, his fear was of a different kind, his doubts were of a different kind.

How could someone like him, a man who had murdered his own father, expect to have a family, a child, a son, of his own? His father would mock him for thoughts like this. Almost he could hear him do it with this thick posh accent of his, his hands clasped behind his back and his left eyebrow cocked in an almost provoking fashion. Back then, Connor had not been able to understand it, now … Well, he was not sure if he did.

Nevertheless, having destroyed the Templars of the colonies - of America - had not just meant that he had fulfilled Achilles' work or rid the colonies of those vile and evil men. No, to him, it had meant ridding himself of the last bit of family that he still had left in this world. Maybe it was not fair to think that way because every day on which he would leave his house on the hill, which seemed so much bigger, and more silent since Achilles was dead, he would see his family: a bunch of strangers that came to his land to grow together into a family, a community, into a safe haven even to him. And then there was his crew of the Aquila always strolling about the paths of the Homestead and of course his recruits in whom he had great trust. Looking back now, everything that he had done could as well have backfired. The people he had invited onto this piece of land, could have turned out to be as vile as the Templars and yet none of them had betrayed his trust. He had not minded helping them with every little problem. And yet, during the last year, he had noticed how he had grown oh so very tired. Tired of their little catastrophes, tired of their pleas and asks and little errands in Boston or New York.

He had never been that type of person who expected anything back in exchange for his help. He had always liked helping people and when those people wanted to pay him back in some way or another, he would not argue with them, but he had never expected it. And yet, despite that, he felt like this deeply … he had grown tired of all of this. He had grown tired of helping. All the more surprised had he been as those people had shown up on his doorstep and after they had first come, they had come every day to check on him. It had been odd. Prudence sometimes came with a freshly baked loaf of bread or would invite him for dinner and so did the others. They would bring food or just a little bit of company and as he had finally found the courage to ask why they had responded that this was what people did when someone in their community was grieving.

Grieving, he had found himself thinking. Yes, he was grieving, he supposed. Even now. Still, he was grieving. But for what? Or for whom? He could not tell.

For the first time since he had left his village behind at the tender age of thirteen, with revenge in mind and too much energy for his own good, he started to feel like he had a home again, people he could trust, people who would maybe even catch him if he was ever going to fall, people he did not want to fail in any way. But even though he had formed a family of his own like this and experienced their kindness and love, it was still not the same and it still did not fill the gaping hollow hole in his chest.

The realization for whom and for what he was grieving, came to him at night, when he had least expected it. Shaken awake by some fever dream, he climbed out of his bed finally and caught himself watching out of his window. He could not see much from here but hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline down at the bay. He could feel the sudden urge to go down there and walk with naked feet through the sand, yet, he stayed where he was for one moment longer, until another urge came over him and so he left his room on bare feet, dressed only in a pair of loose pants, his hair clinging to his sweaty skin. His neighbors had insisted that he would join them for dinner and drinks at the tavern, and Connor, after what had felt like an eternity, had agreed and left his house. Still, no matter how much he had enjoyed their presence and to hear the stories they told him, he had not felt as if he had been fully there with them. He felt lost since he had killed Charles, although their parting had felt more peaceful than he would have ever thought it would. He had felt forgiveness towards the man at that exact moment. He had felt as though finally, they had understood one another and as if there was not grievance between them, as odd as it was now. A part of him wished that he and his father had parted the same way.

His feet, however, did not carry him outside, but down the stairs and into the back hall. He usually left the secret door open now that he was all alone. There was nothing to hide anyway. Well, almost nothing, he assumed. He did not need light to walk downstairs for even blind he would be able to find his way. The creaking of the steps underneath his weight was familiar and he thought about the way the squeaking had increased over the years in relation to him growing stronger and bigger. Achilles had liked to taunt him every time he had ripped another set of clothes during his training, but he had been proud in secret. Slowly he wandered through the wide open space that was the basement and stepped towards the back of the room where once the portraits of his enemies had hung. Now there was only one left. He could feel the eyes of the man staring at him through the darkness. Connor found himself hesitating as he blindly grabbed the matches from the wooden table that stood at the wall, but then he ignited the flame and lit the candle that he kept on the table.

Maybe he had not known his father as much as he thought he had, he wondered as he looked up at the portrait and his father's cold blue eyes. They looked much more menacing, much colder, much more unfeeling on this portrait than they had been in real life. He remembered the day he had first met him face to face, _really_ met him, in that abandoned church and how surprised he had been that his eyes had been anything but cold and unfeeling. If anything, Connor had been overwhelmed by the extent of emotion that they had shown. Back then, however, he had not been able to understand it yet. His eyes wandered to the small book that way lying on the table underneath the portrait, clad in black leather with a monogram. _H. E. K._ Those letters felt horribly familiar, as Connor brushed his fingers over them once again. Haytham Edward Kenway. Odd. Sometimes he wondered what his life might have been like if he had grown up with his father. Would he be Connor then? Would he be Ratonhnhaké:ton? Or would he be someone entirely different?

He had refused to read his father's journal for quite some time after he had gotten it. But after he had then started to read it, it had become quite apparent that he had indeed not known his father. Maybe he could even understand the man, the human being that had been Haytham Edward Kenway, after having read it now, but that made it all the harder to accept that he would never get the chance of talking to him again, maybe even argue with him again. They rarely had had a decent conversation and he thought now that even if they would not have been enemies, it would not have been much different. Their tempers had been too much alike. They both had been just too hot-headed for their own good, even though his father would have probably argued that his temper had cooled off with age. It had not. Still, he wished nothing more than to get another chance with his father, to see him again, to hear his snarky comments about his appearance or his insolent ideas. Before he had murdered his father, he had only hoped that some of this banter between them was born not out of hatred for their different causes, but out of love for the only child that Haytham had ever had. Then his father had forced him to kill him and left him his journal as if to mock him.

Oh, he had been violently angry that his father had had the audacity to leave him his journal after everything. Had he not had the strength of mind and heart to talk to Connor himself? Had he been that much of a coward, that he had wanted to let his journal do the explaining for him? Then again, after reading his journal (after months of not touching the book at all), he now was very much aware that all of this really had been out of love – or at least that was what he took from it, what he maybe wanted to take from it, to not feel as empty as he already did. He did not know if his father had intended him to feel this way. Maybe he had wanted to mock him. At least that would be like him, wouldn't it? To taunt him even in death. Yet, his father, very clearly, had expressed his wish for his only son to read his journal, hoping that perhaps he would understand him and maybe even forgive him.

It was hard to forgive his father for what he had done. He could forgive him for the things he had done, for the crimes he had committed, for not being there when he had needed him the most, even for being a Templar because now, that he was older, he understood that there was no such thing as good and evil, not just one right way. He could not forgive his father for forcing his hand, though. His father had forced Connor to kill him. That was the horrible truth of their fight.

His father had known that Connor was his right from the first moment he had seen him, apparently. He had not wanted to read the journal originally because he had not desired to read sorry attempts of an explanation from a dead man, he had not wanted this lazy cop out, and he had not wanted to see a human being in his father. It had been easier to see him as his enemy and nothing else. However, his father had been a man of many inner conflicts and fears - just as Connor himself. He could see that now and he felt all the sadder that he had not seen it before when he still had the chance of talking to him about those things.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor felt torn nowadays strolling around the homestead, that was a truth he had to deal with and that was what his friends had noticed, even though he would have never expected them to notice. If he was honest, Connor would have never thought that his friends and neighbors would put too much thought into him and his behavior. A part of him had almost thought that they would see him as a given. Three years had gone by since his mentor had died, since his father had died, and two years since Charles had died, but the feeling of things getting better still refused to come. It was easier if he would remind himself of the years that had gone by. He had been twenty-five years of age when he had killed his father and lost his mentor. It was easier to recall the numbers. It made it … more concrete, the feeling not so very vague and fleeting. Maybe that way the waves of sadness that would sometimes hit him would die off.

After the intervention of his friends and weeks of them almost forcing him to join them for dinner and drinks at their houses or the tavern, he had started doing his usual work around the Homestead or New York and Boston again. He was aware that he had let his duties slide, that he had let his role as a mentor slide. Sometimes he would set sail with his crew to help wherever their help was needed, but even that did not manage to fulfill him anymore. The sea, although still a companion of his, felt strange to him. His grip on the wheel, different. He was sailing the sea with a different kind of knowledge nowadays. Maybe that was why his friends had told him that he should rest. Maybe they could see it too. Maybe they had seen the change inside his mind. Even Dobby had stopped teasing him about finding a wife to find a new kind of fulfillment in life. He was not naive, he knew what she meant when she would say stuff like this, but his friends found great joy in teasing him. Their obsession with sex sometimes was unnerving to him. And of course, he was aware that Dobby was hoping that she would find a way into his heart even. However, he could not rest as they told him to. Because if he would try to rest his mind, everything would come crashing back down on him again. Everything he had done and everything he could have maybe prevented.

Another few months had passed and still, he would sometimes find himself lying wide awake in his bed in this big, silent house and could not find sleep, wondering if his father really would have choked him to death, had he not stopped him.

The childish part of him wanted to believe that he had not, right from the beginning. His inner child had mourned his father greatly, had shed many tears in silence in this room because he had not wanted anyone to know that he had dearly loved this monster that had been his enemy. Now after so much time had gone by, he was certain that his father would not have killed him. He would have maybe choked him until he would have fallen unconscious, but he would not have killed him. Instead, his own father had wanted Connor to kill him, that was the only reason he had let go of Connor's arm. If Haytham had really wanted it, he could have had immobilized him and yet use both hands to choke him, but he had not. Connor had been horribly injured, his at least two of his ribs broken and a few more bruised. He had known Connor would fear for his life and cause and the people he had grown to love and that he would lash out at him as soon as he would give him the chance. Knowing this did not make it better though if all it made him only feel sadder and lost in this maelstrom of emotions. If he had trusted his father more, he could still be alive and they could still have the chance of reconciliation.

It took almost another half of a year of his friends constantly nagging that he needed a break, that he needed to rest before he set sail again with his father's journal in his luggage.

As he walked up the board to enter the Aquila, his plan had been set in stone. London. He wanted to see London, to see his father's birth house at Queen Anne’s Square. He wanted to meet his aunt, even though he did not know if she was aware of his existence. A sad thought, really. However, soon, hours after they had left the Homestead behind them, they were forced to land on Martha's Vineyard as a violent storm was hitting. Connor wanted to go through with his idea, but, hours after they reached Martha's Vineyard, the storm refused to ebb off. If anything, it only grew more and more violent.

His crew did not mind the detour from their original plan. They had already decided that they would not leave until the next morning again and so they had bought rooms at the inn. Connor, however, was not as contempt with the situation as they were. He found himself staring out of one of the large windows, staring into the storm and the rain that was heavily hitting against this very window. He was frustrated beyond belief. With his journey towards London to discover his British roots already experiencing such a backlash, Connor felt oddly disheartened. How would this journey continue after a bad start as this one?

»We made a real seafarer out of you.« Robert chuckled after Connor voiced his doubts at him. His large hand was laying reassuringly on his left shoulder. The rest of his crew was loudly enjoying themselves in the background and Connor did not mind them drinking or playing and singing. It was not their fault that the weather was forcing them to change their plan.

»What makes you believe that?« Connor asked as he suppressed a sigh and turned his face to look at Mr. Faulkner. This man had been only one of the great teachers he had in his young life and he was maybe one of the few who knew him the best. He had seen Connor grow into a man, after all, and Connor was aware of the amount of trust that Robert would put into him when they would be out there. Together they had won many battles and survived many critical situations. »Is it the hat?« Connor mocked at he gestured towards the hat on his head that reminded him oh so very much of his own father.  Somehow it did suit him, but he would never admit it. »Or is it the uniform?«

Robert laughed and this almost managed to make him grin at least a little. It was this deep rumbling laugh that even trumped the roaring thunder outside. »It's the superstition!« He laughed. »As you first came aboard the Aquila you were a normal young lad and now, years later, you are just as superstitious as the rest of us. I must say, my work is done here. I am quite proud of you, Captain!«

Robert patted his back with his large, calloused right hand before he raised his beer glass at him and took a big swipe. Only then he left Connor to his own musings again to go and talk to Miss Mandy. Since the first time they had set foot on Martha's Vineyard together, Connor had not been able to shake off the feeling that there was something going on between them. A long lost love, perhaps, as Dobby had once offered as an explanation. Connor suddenly found himself smirking at this thought. Of course Robert would like it to land here again if that was the case.

Well, maybe a break would not do them any harm and so, he turned away from the window as another lightning bolt came crashing into the sea. Connor decided to hover near the bar while he was watching his crew. He still did not participate in drinking. He had not touched a single drop of ale in his life and he did not wish to change that anyway. It had been enough for him to taste the whiskey that Charles Lee had offered him back in that tavern as he had killed him. After that, he had truly understood the meaning of the term fire water and to this day it eluded his understanding why and how people could enjoy alcohol. It had only burned in his throat and made his eyes water. Other than this, he saw what alcohol made of men every day and so he entertained himself with watching the men instead, listening to their stories and banter. Still, for just a moment, he thought back to the journal of his father that he was carrying around with him. What would his grandfather, Edward, think about him if he would be able to see him now? Yes, apparently he had taken after him as it came to their shared love of the sea, but in the drinking department, Connor horribly failed.

As day three of them being stuck on Martha’s Vineyard came around, Connor had already grown anxious. He could not stand being in this inn for a day longer and even Mr. Faulkner could send his distress. Something wanted to keep them here, or at least that was how he felt and he did not like that feeling at all. It was like being locked in a cage. Though this cage of his had sturdy walls, windows, and a warm bed to sleep in. His men enjoyed their stay at the inn and Robert enjoyed spending time with Miss Mandy. Connor, however just wanted to continue their journey, but he almost felt as if some force did not want him to act out his plan. In those dark and stormy nights on Martha’s vineyard, he found himself reading in his father's journal again. He had read through it quite a few times by now and yet he felt drawn back to the beginning again and again, to the passages and pages in which his father was talking about his own father as if, like this, Connor would be able to get to know his grandfather a little better.

At least, he thought as he looked up from his journal on the evening of the third day as the door of the inn swung open and an old man hurried inside, he started to be able to get an image of what his grandfather had looked like. His father had described him through the eyes of a child, of course. Tall, strong, blonde, with piercing blue eyes and a raspy voice heavy with his welsh accent. His grandfather seemed to have been a playful man and yet, sometimes, when he would scan his father's narrow and neat handwriting, he caught himself thinking that his father had not at all known his own father. Slowly he closed the journal and leaned back in his chair at the table in the corner to scan the room. Maybe his father and he had been quite alike, he wondered. They had shared similar fates, hadn't they?

They had both grown up without their fathers, both of them had joined a group for a bigger reason than themselves. His father had wanted answers and he had wanted revenge and to make sure that his people would be safe. In the end, however, they had both chosen the opposite side. His father had chosen the Templars freely after he had discovered the truth about his father being an Assassin and Connor had chosen the Assassins freely despite knowing that his father had been a Templar. Just as well his father could have decided against the Order and joined in his father's footsteps. Just as well Connor could have decided against the Brotherhood and join his father instead.  If he had done so, if he had sought him out in Boston instead, maybe he and his father would have had a relationship then. Maybe they would have had a strong bond between them. Maybe he would not be dead now.

Well, those were a whole lot of maybes.

»Oi!« Suddenly the voice of a man bellowed through the inn and Connor, startled, followed the sound only to realize that it came from the same old man who had just entered the tavern. He was soaking wet due to the heavy rain outside, his coat was dripping on the floorboards but he did not seem to mind even in the slightest. »Lad!« It took him a moment to realize that the old man was addressing him and only as the man started to point and wave at him, Connor got the hint. »Come over here. Join me in a game.«

Connor had never been particularly fond of board games.  That was just how it was. His bad temper often enough had forced him to lose his composure while playing. Maybe he would even agree that he was a sore loser. So, keeping that in mind, Connor was not too thrilled about the prospect of playing checkers with some random stranger at this tavern while his mind was already on it's way to London, anxious to get out here and back on the Aquila. Well, with a sigh, he stood up anyway and grabbed the journal to shove it into the right front pocket of his navy blue coat. While he was waiting that the storm would finally vanish, he could as well play with this man, he thought and so he joined him at his table.

The man had skin like a raisin, darkened and aged by the sun as if he had spent his whole life outside, working the fields of some plantation or at sea on some vessel. As they started to play Connor quickly concluded that it had to be the latter. He was, without a doubt, a seafarer judging by his manners, the marks on his hands from years of climbing through the shrouds and up into the crow’s nest. The saltwater and the sun had washed out his gray hair and he looked a whole lot older than he probably was. Quickly the man had started to talk during their play and introduced himself as Bartholomy Matthews a former pirate turned fisherman after being pardoned by the British in the year 1723. For a while, Connor just listened to the man ramble on and on about his time at sea, his time as a pirate, oh so very long ago during the golden age of piracy before they had been hunted down to the last man. Only thanks to his captain at that time, who had accepted the pardon of the British in Bristol, he had been able to start a new, honest life. But, without a doubt to Connor, this old man missed the piracy greatly and Connor found himself wondering if criminals like pirates would ever be able to stray from their ways of plundering to lead a normal life. Well, his grandfather most certainly had, somehow.

»I will never forget the beautiful Anne Bonny, boy.« He sighed heavily after a while, but as Connor looked at him he grew aware of the mischievous little grin that was playing on his face. This time Connor found himself smiling even though he did not quite know why. For a moment he even wondered if he should not feel affronted to be still called _boy_ by so many. His crew would never dare to address their captain this way, but he knew that to Robert he still was a boy. Hell, what would he need to do to be seen as a man? Well, to old men he would probably always look like a child.

»Who was she?« Connor found himself asking for the first time since they started playing, although by now their game was almost forgotten and Connor even found joy in just listening to the tales of the old man.

»Who she was?« The old man laughed as if Connor should know this woman. »Did you never hear the stories of the great Anne Bonny and Mary Reed before? Oh, those women, boy, you would not want to mess with them back in the day. They were fierce fighters, legendary even in the Caribbean Sea. Sadly, Mary later died in prison, but Anne was freed by my old Captain. I'm still sure that this man was the devil himself and no one will ever convince me otherwise. Anne became the the quartermaster of the Jackdaw after that. Oh I still remember that ship. Well, after all, it was the last pirate ship I sailed on before the pardon, before becoming an honest man.« He laughed again as if all of this was just some big joke and to him it maybe was. »I later heard that the Jackdaw sunk but no one knows why. A real mystery, if you ask me, lad. Our captain, that mad man Kenway, just retired to good ol' Britain and left his ship behind after the pardon. He always dreamed of having a nice simple life as a respectable gentleman, after all.«

»Kenway?« Connor was quick to interrupt the man before he could ramble on about the ship any longer. He did not remember if his father had ever noted the name of his father's ship in his journal and yet the name sounded familiar. He could still remember how surprised he had been as he had found out about his grandfather being a pirate, but ever since he had felt a weird sense of connection between him and his grandfather. After that he had been sure that his almost natural talent for maneuvering a ship, which Robert so often had praised in the past, surely had been his grandfather's gift to him. Knowing this had healed at least a tiny part of the wound that was his aching heart, a small comfort to him that had made him feel as if, maybe, his grandfather was watching him from beyond his grave and that he was maybe even proud of his grandson following in his footsteps as an Assassin and a lover of the sea.

The old man looked at him in surprise as if he had almost forgotten that he was even there during his story. For a moment, Connor was almost sure that he could see something like a fleeting sense or recognition in his dull gray eyes which only started to sparkle with life and glee as he had talked about the sea and Anne Bonny. »Aye« He then replied and cleared his throat. »Edward Kenway, the devil of the Caribbean Sea, Lad. He was a crazy man, absolutely mad like a hare in March!« Suddenly he remembered how once he had been inscribed with that same insult years ago on the battlefield. »But he was a genius at the wheel of his ship. But anyway, where was I, boy? Ah yes, Anne Bonny. She was a close friend of the captain, you know? Sadly, he had left her behind as we set sail back to England. She did not want to follow him there. I don't know what happened to her afterward, but she might even still be alive. Oh, I would love to see her again!«

Connor fell silent again and listened with half an ear to the continuation of the man’s rambling about Anne Bonny, her beauty, the sea, the adventures they had gone on, the glory of the golden age of piracy and the end of it before he interrupted him once more. Suddenly he knew why the storm had refused to calm down. Suddenly he knew what force had been keeping them here. London needed to wait, he decided. »Where?«

»What?«

»Do you know where she might live?« If she was still alive, he wanted to add, but then again he did not because he felt as though there was no _if_ for once. She was still out there. Almost he could sense it. Was this his grandfather telling him where to go next? Was this his grandfather showing him the way?

As he later walked up to Robert and told him that they would set sail the next morning, he had wanted to immediately tell him that they could not possibly continue their journey towards England in weather like this. Even greater was his surprise as Connor then told him that they would not go to England at all, but rather set sail back home and towards Charleston instead.


	4. Chapter 4

He arrived at Charleston in South Carolina early in the day with no explanation to his crew or even Mr. Faulkner, a few days after they had left Martha’s vineyard behind for good. The storm, just as Connor had expected, had calmed overnight after he had made the decision of turning towards Charleston instead by some miracle. _The will of the gods is an enigma to men_ , Faulkner had muttered in the early morning hours as they had left the tavern. Connor, however, thought that the gods had nothing to do with this storm. As Connor walked down the board in the small harbor of Charleston, he could hear some of his men complain about being here instead of following their intended plan, but as he looked back, he could see Robert who stood at the railing and looked at him with a fond smile on his face, almost as if he knew what had led his Captain to this decision.

The people of Charleston were just as weary of his as the people of New York and Boston. It was his physique, he mused. _You have the look of a brute_ , he remembered Mason Weems say years ago in Bridewell and remembering this still made him smirk. His father had not been much shorter than he was, but even his father had sometimes thrown a comment like this at him in the endless hours they had spent traveling together. His father had almost been comfortable company as they had traveled across the sea on their hunt for Church. Almost. He had started to grow more and more anxious and antsy with each day they had been out there. _Bitchy_ , he had heard one of his crew members call his father. Once, he had even heard his father say that he was starting to think Connor had been sired by a bear instead and had taken it as a personal affront. Now, however, remembering those words and how his father had muttered them, sometimes made him chuckle.

Connor was, of course, trying to ask the people that he saw on the market for Anne Bonny, but not many wanted to talk to him and rather hurried their way when he would approach them. He was used to this reaction towards him, though usually only when he would wear his Assassin robes. It was the hood, Stephane had mocked him once. Maybe it was the arsenal of weapons that was usually attached to him that scared people. However, it seemed that not even as an honest captain he could convince the people to talk to him.

After an hour of search without any help from the strangers he tried to talk to, he grew more and more frustrated, while he was wandering the dusty streets. He was already about to quit his search for the day and go back to the Aquila instead, as, suddenly, the door of the local pawn shop to his left opened. A young man slowly walked out of the building, his eyes on Connor and so the Captain of the Aquila paused in his movements to look at the man. They were around the same age, as he quickly concluded. The man was not older than thirty at the most, with fiery red hair sticking out from under his hat as he walked through the door and stepped out onto the cobblestone street. First, Connor was sure that the man either wanted to talk to some of the other people roaming the streets or that he wanted to tell Connor to get lost, but instead, he stopped right in front of him and nervously scratched his neck. »Someone told me you were searching for Anne Bonny.« The man said. of course, strangers like Connor attracted a lot of attention in places like this.

He nodded slowly, but then quickly cleared his throat for a more decent response. »Yes. If you could tell me where to find her, I would owe you something.«

»What do you want from her?« The man asked and Connor could sense the hostility of the young man as his green eyes were ghosting over Connor's attire.

»I want to talk to her.« He replied. »She knew my family.« He was not comfortable with spilling the beans to a stranger. It did not concern this man why he wanted to talk to Anne, but his heart made a jump as it seemed now confirmed that she was indeed living in Charleston. He was close. Well, at least he hoped he was. The young man still seemed unsure if he wanted to trust Connor enough to help him, but then, with a sigh, he gestured towards a narrow house by the end of the street.

»She is my grandmother.« The man explained. »I could introduce you to her if you would tell me with whom I’m speaking.«

Connor had never introduced himself as anything else but just Connor. That was who he was and yet, for the longest time, it felt as if that was not the truth anymore. He was part of a family. He was part of a legacy. The only one to carry on the name, in fact. A part of him had always wondered if his father would have intended for him to carry the family name, even though he was nothing but his bastard son and since he had not known, he had refrained from it. It too had felt like a disservice to Achilles, as long as the old man had still been alive and so he had not used the name. »Im Connor.« He replied, but as the man in front of him, Anne Bonny’s grandson, cocked one eyebrow in question, he made himself continue. »Connor Kenway.« It felt odd. But it did not feel as wrong as Connor had always feared that it would.

The young man smiled and nodded but he did not show the slightest sign of recognition towards his name. He introduced himself as Finian McDougle to Connor as he then led the way to his grandmother's home just a few feet down the road. It had been so close the entire time and yet Connor had not seen it. Then again, what had he expected the house of a former pirate to look like? Anne Bonny, Anne Kingsley how she was called now, lived in a nice unagitated narrow two story house right on the main street of Charleston, built in that typical colonial townhouse style that Connor knew from Boston or New York. Right opposite of her house was a pub located, the Jolly Roger. Well, maybe that could have been a clue, he mused as he walked up to her door.

Her grandson knocked three times against the sturdy wood of the front door. Someone had painted it in a bright dark green color, and not too long ago too. The paint looked pristine enough to not be older than a year. It took a moment, until Connor started to hear movement from inside the house and then, a heartbeat or two later, the door opened.

In front of him stood, tall and proud, an old lady, probably already in her early eighties. Her hair was of a light gray and Connor could only guess that it once had the same vibrant red color as her grandson’s. Her emerald green eyes were sharp as a razor as their gaze fell upon Connor instantaneously without even paying attention to her grandson who greeted her and told her who Connor was. The voice of the man was only a dull hum somewhere in the world outside of Connor's head. It was odd, the way Anne looked at him, studied his face, her eyes roaming over his face and his body as if she was looking for something. She seemed to have found it, as her eyes took in the leather gauntlet that he wore on his left wrist.

»Yes, yes, it's alright, Fin.« She turned to her grandson and for the first time, her eyes left Connor as she looked at the man who stood beside him. »You can go back to your shop now, I got this.«

»But grandma, I-<<

»It's fine, Fin.« She repeated and this time with a little more vigor in her voice to make her point a little clearer. Finnian nodded. He looked again at Connor, tapped the rim of his hat and went to go back to the pawn shop. Connor, however, felt frozen in his current position in front of the door. Anne Bonny, even as an old lady, was not like he would have imagined an old lady of her years and past to be. Despite her age, Connor could sense the former beauty she had once possessed. The way she held herself spoke of pride and fearlessness, of a woman who had fought countless battles and proven her place in this world. Even though her dress was decent and tailored just for her, conservative and restricted, Connor would never make the mistake to see just a regular old woman in her.

»Have you lost your tongue, Lad?« She finally addressed him and as he looked at her now, there was a playful smirk on her face and dancing around her eyes. »Well? You wanted to talk to me, right? So, come on in then, Darling.«

As she stepped inside the house to let him in, Connor took off his hat immediately. His hair had grown quite long in the past three years after he had not continued to shave the sides of his head. His war was over now, after all. He found himself nervously brushing a hand over his scalp as he followed Anne slowly into a tight sitting room. The house was nicely decorated and there were many little nicknacks standing around. The theme of her decorations, though, was unmistakably maritime. He liked it. And so close as her house was to the harbor, he could smell the salty air coming from the ocean through one of her open windows. A nice little fire was dancing in the fireplace and Anne hurried to close the open window. It was winter, after all. She was slow in her movements, but she herself seemed to be more frustrated than anything about that.

»You know« She began as she came back to him and gestured towards her large green sofa as the universal sign for him to sit. Hesitantly he did as he was told. »I recognized you immediately. I guess you do not hear that very often, Sweetie, but you do look just like your grandfather.« He felt uncomfortable as she said this. »You have the came nose, the same stubborn jaw and chin and the same mouth. Well, of course, sadly I never got to know your father, but as I saw you right then, I immediately saw Edward in you.« She still smirked but there was a little bit of sadness in her green eyes. Nostalgia, perhaps even. »I saw the ship that arrives earlier in the harbor. I take that it's yours?«

Connor almost felt as if he had swallowed his tongue completely or forgotten how to talk at all. His throat felt dry as if it had been lined with sandpaper. »Yes« He finally replied. »Yes. It's the Aquila.«

Anne laughed again a little. »Aquila!« She repeated immediately and gently patted his leg. »Oh, He would have loved that! So, I take it that you have some questions for me, haven't you? That's why you are here, young Mr. Kenway, aren't you?«

Anne Bonny was a remarkable woman and Connor was quick to understand why his grandfather had liked her so much that she had even been the quartermaster of the Jackdaw – an unusual job for a young woman as she had been back in the day. Women like her usually ended up in a brothel or as a barmaid, he assumed. She reminded him of his own mother quite a bit. Anne was just as fierce as his mother had been, a woman of unusual skill and talent even to this day. Settling down and having a family, had not cost her any of her wits or her sharp edge. She was, like his mother, a woman born to be something more and not just a petite little wife with children some guy could come home to and expect dinner being already waiting for him on the table. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. And even to this day, Connor quickly understood, she was the true head of the house.

Anne told him about her time on board of the Jackdaw in great detail. She spoke about the long nights on the deck or those when they had anchored on some smaller island to have a nice fire under the stars and just enjoy life with a bottle of rum, music, and conversation. It sounded peaceful, the way she told him her story, but Connor knew of course that those times had not always been just sunshine and rainbows. She spoke about the music and the shanties they had sung, about the adventures she had been fortunate to experience in her youth. She told him about her time before she became the quartermaster of the Jackdaw, about her best friend Mary Read who had been herself a fierce and feared pirate, an Assassin, a good friend. She told him even about the night when his grandfather had tried to rescue them both from the dungeons on Cuba and how Mary had succumbed to a fever during that night. She told him about Adéwalé who sadly died during the purge of the brotherhood and who was just another famous Assassin of whom Connor had heard much about but never thought that his family could be tied to him in any way. Achilles had sometimes mentioned him with great fondness. The thought that his very own father had been responsible for Adélwalé’s death, made him angry. Surely, Anne knew nothing about his father's involvement in his death. She seemed to have lost contact with him after she had settled down here.

After that, they fell into silence for a moment, both of them confined to their own thoughts. It was odd to Connor, having someone to talk to about his grandfather, hearing all those stories about him and about the things he had done, about the impact he had had on the things that had been happening back in the day. His grandfather, much like he and his father, were players in this game that was forming the history of the world and yet their names would never show up in some history book. They would be forgotten and just vanish into nothingness. This thought had never bothered him. But now it was his responsibility that the names of his ancestors would not be forgotten like this. He had to carry them on, both of them.

»I would have liked to meet him.« Connor finally broke the silence quietly before he took a sip of the tea that Anne had made them during all of this. She laughed a little louder this time. It was a shrill, but nonetheless pleasant sound.

»I bet you would have gotten along well.« She smiled. »And I bet he would have loved to see the young Kenway lad too. Adé would have had much to tell you about your good ol' gramps, maybe even more than I. Your grandfather once rescued him from a slaver's ship on which they both had been prisoners and they had been together ever since before they went their separate ways. Oh, Adé was so proud of your grandfather when we received a letter from Eddie telling us about his new family luck in Britain as a fine gentleman, after he has accepted the pardon. I still remember how Adé has laughed imagining Edward sitting at a nicely dressed dinner table wearing stockings and a nice frock and frilled shirts. But he was proud that Edward finally managed to settle down and grow up. Your grandfather was pretty much a child, I must say until he retired and Adé always was the one person – except for Mary – who was able to talk some sense into him. And Adé was not shy about scolding your grandpa either.«

»I always wondered why he accepted the pardon.« Connor turned back to Anne, but she only chuckled.

»Well, at the peak of his life on sea he would never have done it. He called those who did traitors. But then, as our friends started to die all around us and as it became clearer and clearer that the piracy was going to die and as he finally joined the Assassins shortly before going back to Bristol with your aunt Jenny, I think he started to understand that there would be no other way if he wanted to live. He wrote me, after he accepted the pardon from a man by the name of Robert Walpole, no other as the cousin of the man Edward had once killed, an Assassin turned traitor by the name Duncan Walpole. With this murder everything had started for him. With this murder, Edward had gotten involved in this whole business between Assassins and Templars. To him, he told me, it almost felt like fate or like closing a book. He wished for his crew to be able to start a new life and for his family to be safe and so, he accepted the pardon.«

»My father wrote in his journal about my grandfather quite a bit. He looked up to him it seems, even though they would later differ in their beliefs. But, to me, he seemed to have been a very stern father and very protective too.« Connor mumbled at one point, while he tried to imagine a fierce pirate captain being scolded by his first mate like Anne described it. He had thought that talking to her and hearing all these things would make him feel lighter and not burdened by the things he had done as much anymore, but the opposite was the case. He felt sad.

»Oh, he was a very stern captain too if he wanted to be. His men loved and respected him as much as they feared him.« She laughed before she started to tell him the story of how his grandfather became an Assassin and the struggles he had faced during that time. To Connor, hearing this story felt important. To him, his call had been clear from a very early age on even though he could have decided against it. He had never questioned becoming an Assassin after he finally managed Achilles to teach him. It had been his way to pursue from then on and never had he questioned if it was the right thing for him to do. It just was. Maybe, thinking about that, made him understand his own father even a little better. As well as it had been his calling to become an Assassin, it had been his father's to become a Templar despite everything, despite the betrayal of his mentor Reginald Birch.

His grandfather, however, had struggled and he had been offered a choice whether he wanted to become an Assassin or rather stay away from it. His grandfather had seen what dangers and responsibilities came with being an Assassin first hand and yet he had decided to follow this path, no matter that he had not been a guy who really had liked to take on responsibilities as it seemed. Connor was proud hearing this, but after reading his father's journal he could also understand his father's way of thinking about all of this. His father was not a bad person, he had not had bad intentions. And knowing what he did know now, made it all the harder not to be angry with him. He was sure now that they would have found a way, together.


	5. Chapter 5

It was already late and the sun was about to set outside of Charleston, as Anne ended her story. They sat in silence for a while and listened to the crackling of the fire that was burning inside the fireplace while outside a gush of wind was ripping on the shutters of her windows. Anne was living alone inside the house after her husband had died during the war. She did not seem overly saddened by it and somehow Connor had not expected her to be either way. She had told him about her children, three of them and about her grandchildren, which were a whole lot more. To him, it seemed as if she had lived a fulfilling life and as she now sat in silence next to him, somehow it seemed as if she might have waited for this very day, maybe unknowingly to end a chapter of her life that had still not been finished.

He had told her a little bit about his father, but not about his participation in Adéwalé’s death or that it was him who had killed his own father. He told her his father’s story as best he could without telling her too many details. He even told her about his own life just little enough. There seemed to be a curse lying on the Kenway family, she had gently muttered somewhere between the lines. A family torn and haunted by tragedy, but Connor was adamant to change that.

Anne Bonny had enjoyed her life and her youth. As she had enjoyed traveling the seven seas as a pirate, she had enjoyed being a mother and keeping her husband in check. It seemed that there was not much that she did regret in the end and Connor could only hope that he would look someday back on his life and feel the same way when he was old. Though the more cynical part of him doubted that he would ever grow old enough to get to this point

As their eyes met again, it was as if he was being ripped from a dream. »Come on« She suddenly said with a little grin on her face as she rose from her spot on the sofa without hesitation. »I have to show you something, Capt’n Kenway Junior.«

Connor followed her without thinking twice about it or hesitation even for a second as Anne led him through her house. Even though they only knew each other for not more than a few hours now, Anne treated him like she would on of her regular guests and friends, as if he was a part of her family maybe. Maybe he was. She had greatly respected his grandfather without a doubt. Furthermore, she seemed loyal to Edward to this very day. Apparently, his grandfather had understood to find people he could trust and gather them around himself. Connor, on the other hand, had a much harder time doing so.

Being with Anne felt somehow oddly familiar to him and he liked being in her presence. She stopped as they reached the door that led down into her basement after she had opened the door. After a moment of hesitation, she took a deep breath, grabbed the oil lamp that was hanging from a small hook next to the staircase, lit it and led him downstairs. Connor had expected to see the usual crates and barrels being stored downstairs as he would usually see in the houses of other people, but only a wide empty space waited for him underneath her house. He already wanted to ask her why she wanted to show him an empty basement, but then he noticed the big, wooden chest at the side of the room.

Anne walked straight towards it and he, a little lost, followed her but paused in his tracks a few feet away as she opened the chest with skilled ease, lifting the surely heavy lid as though it weight naught before she pulled something out of it and let the lid fall shut again heavily. Connor found himself coughing from the dust of centuries being swirled up, but then he focused on the folded piece of black fabric in Anne's hand and before she could even spread it out on the dusty ground, Connor already knew what it was.

In awe, he watched how Anne unfolded the fabric and spread it out on the dusty ground, with not a care for the dirt in the world. Connor just stared at her before he could even find the courage to lower his eyes on the ground. Lying on the ground in front of him now was a black pirate flag, a Jolly Roger, adorned with a skull and the insignia of the Assassins framing the skull. Connor knew whose flag that was instantly. Of course, he did. What reason would Anne have to show him  _ some  _ Jolly Roger that she had kept as a keepsake? Under this flag, his grandfather had sailed and while touching it felt somehow like a sacrilege to him, he could not help but crouch down in front of it to carefully place his left hand on the fabric.

When he later arrived back at the Aquila the night hung low and most of his men had already gone to bed. He felt a bit dizzy from the events of the day – and the ale Anne had given him after giving the flag to him, not accepting no for an answer concerning the beer. She had laughed about him being a lightweight. He had not wanted to accept the gift after Anne had folded the flag up again and gave it to him with a fond smile on her lips. To her, it had felt right to give him the only relict that she had held onto for all those years. Maybe that was her way of finding closure before she would leave this earth someday.

Connor, however, had argued that it should better stay with her so she could keep her keepsake from her time on board the Jackdaw and remember the golden days and his grandfather at the peak of his life, but Anne had promised him that her memories were keepsake enough to her and that she was not a sentimental woman anyway. To her it was as if Edward would have wanted his grandson to inherit his flag after he could not inherit the ship itself, she had told him, and that she had never really known why she held onto it for so many years, sometimes even forgetting its existence entirely until he came to her door this morning.

Faulkner was the only one who spotted him as Connor crept back on board of the ship with that folded flag pressed against his chest. He was glad that Faulkner did not talk to him as Connor quickly vanished into his cabin without a word. As he heavily sat down on his cot he did not know if it was the ale that he had been forced to drink at Anne's place or if it really was just the sentiment of having his grandfather's flag washing over him and filling his heart, but, for the first time in a long while, he felt like crying.

He had not cried much after his father's death or after the death of Achilles. He had never had time to mourn the loss of his childhood either since he had left his village really. For years he had just marched on every day, hoping that he would achieve the goals he had set for himself and that he had. But he had also been betrayed by people that he had trusted, people that he had worked for in good trust that they would make the world a better place. Those were the people that would be remembered by the world and he had chosen to aid them and yet they had betrayed him. People had disappointed him so many times and in so many ways, and yet he had marched on because there was nothing else for him to do. Losing hope was simply not an option.

And now that everything was over, that his fight was apparently won, that his father was gone, that Charles Lee was dead, he felt terribly lost. Three years had gone by since his father and Achilles’ deaths and yet it felt as if it had been only yesterday. As he lay down on his cot, with his father's journal on the small table next to him and his grandfather's flag pressed against his chest he found himself wondering, if his grandfather had ever felt just as lost as he did now, while a small voice inside his head – the voice of a child maybe – decided that it was time to pick up his father's portrait and get it out of the basement. He did not wish to burn it and he did not wish to hang it up in the dining room. Somehow it always had felt like a disservice to Achilles if he would put his father's portrait anywhere else than the basement. But his father was a part of him, a part of his legacy and he dearly wanted to have it around. Maybe one day he would be able to tell his own children the story of their grandfather and of their great grandfather and even show them what their grandfather had looked like.

It was up to him now to continue this legacy, to break the Kenway family curse maybe even. And, he would make sure that his family would not be forgotten.

****  
**\- End of Part I -**   



	6. Part II

**1781, London England**

He had been loyal to the cause or two decades. He had spent sixteen years of his life hunting down an artifact that some had deemed lost forever because of a promise he had made to a man for whom he had had nothing but respect. A man who was dead now, killed by the hands of his own son.

The news of the death of Haytham Kenway, the grandmaster of the Templar Order in America, came as a surprise for everyone. It was not long after Shay had arrived England after his travels through the world in his seemingly never ending hunt for those dangerous artifacts so that no Assassin would ever lay their hands on them again and cause as much havoc and destruction as they once had in Haiti and Lisbon. To this day he felt haunted by the screams of those who had died because of him and as he had joined the Templars, he had decided to devote his life not only to the Order but to the safety of the human race and the protection of them from the Assassins.

Yet, Haytham Kenway, the man in which he had seen a kind of mentor, had died by the hands of another young Assassin.

Fate had a weird but very direct and very cynical way of repaying for one’s sins - or in his case mercy. _»What world are we making if we cannot show mercy?«_ He had stood behind those words for the last sixteen years, even though h had not shown mercy to Charles Dorian in Paris in the year 1776 as he had killed him and walked past his young son without a care in the world. Yet, he had never regretted that he had convinced Haytham not to kill Achilles, his former mentor. Oh, he had been so full of himself even then and too blind to see what possibilities could wait for them because of this moment of weakness.

He had been burdened too much by the death of his childhood friend, not ready to see another person whom he had cared for die. He had been convinced that Achilles would have understood that the artifacts were dangerous and that he would never dare to revive the Brotherhood. Had he killed Achilles back then, Haytham Kenway would still be alive. Because he had shown mercy - weakness - at the sight of his fallen former mentor, Achilles had lived to train Connor Kenway of all people and thus Connor Kenway had been there to kill his own father.

The name, however, was almost a curse inside of the Order. No one ever referred to the young mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood of America as Connor Kenway. To them, he was nothing, just a speck of dust, just a beast that had the brute strength to destroy their plans and managed to smash the Order in America with nothing but anger and rage. The other Templars were arrogant enough not to even think of the young man as human. It was easier to see an animal in him which just happened to be the bastard son of Haytham, born out of a moment of weakness himself. And Shay, after he had first learned about what had happened, had seen it the very same way as them.

The boy was a beast like every Assassin was, but Achilles had managed to give him other tools than just strength and anger to work with. He had made that beast smart and cunning. He was not even worth the name of his father and that was why no one referred to him as a Kenway.

It took him half a year to rethink his opinion and when he did, he desired nothing more but to travel back to America and aid Charles Lee in his lonely quest against that vile man.

 

**1782, London England**

Charles Lee was dead. The eldest had forbidden Shay from going back to America to help Charles. The Order in America had already been destroyed as they had explained and he, after being branded as a traitor by the Assassins would have been in great danger from the new strong Brotherhood that was thriving overseas. He was too valuable, they had said, after everything that he had done for the Order and so Shay had obliged their will.

Now, there was nothing that could be done anyway and he wondered if he would have been able to save Charles if he had been there. He did not know the young man who was leading the Brotherhood, but, if he was anything like his father, Shay doubted that he would have been able to stop him.

It was almost odd to him now, as he was walking through the streets of London with the letter that spoke of Charles’ death in the right front pocket of his coat, how the things had developed. It almost was comical even. Once the grandmaster of the Templar Order had been a Kenway, now a Kenway was the mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood. Leading seemed to be what they did best. Even Haytham's own father was still famous in this regard, although forgotten by the world.

Sometimes he would walk by the large house at Queen Anne’s Square and see the figure of an elderly lady at one of the windows. He knew that it was Haytham's sister, but he never went to visit her. Only once he had spoken to her as he had given her the precursor box for safe keeping as the council had employed him to do. A part of him wondered even if she might be glad that her brother was dead or that her nephew continued what her father had once started.

Still, no one called Connor a Kenway in the Order as if not speaking about it, made it somehow true. Shay, on the other hand, had decided that it was wrong not to tell it as it was. The other Templars tried to make Connor out to be a complete stranger and as if Haytham's death had been caused by some Assassin so that they did not need to acknowledge the tragedy of all of this.

But a tragedy it was and now the Assassins had conquered America once and for all as it seemed.

 

**1784, New York**

He had not been to New York for quite a long time and so many things had happened since he last set foot on the once familiar grounds of New York. He had spent sixteen years searching for the precursor box just as Haytham had ordered him to. He had done so without questioning his friend and Grand Master of the Templar Order. Sixteen years of his life only to find it in France a few years ago. By now his Order had fallen apart, the colonial - the American branch of the Templar Order was destroyed, Master Kenway dead. Their cause lost.

The Assassins had now the upper hand and despite everything, a part of Shay was impressed even. He was impressed by the young Mr. Kenway for having achieved such a thing almost single-handedly. A few years ago, as he had first learned about Haytham's death and had been struck by grief for his friend and comrade, he had wished to travel home, to find Connor and kill him for what he had done so that he and his fellow Templars would be able to take back control.

Then again, he was aware that this fight would continue endlessly. One year the Assassins were on top, the next year the Templars and like this, the wheel would turn endlessly until someone would finally try to break it. He knew that Haytham had once thought it possible to forge peace between them, but that was decades ago and the chance of peace between Templars and Assassins seemed to have died with him.

Over two decades had needed to pass before the Morrigan finally landed in the harbor of New York again. A long time, almost an entire life, but yet he was here again, for the last time, how he told himself. He was not a young man anymore. He was in his fifties and certainly not as agile and fast as he had been in his youth. His time of hunting and killing Assassins was over, or at least that was what he had decided after he had left France despite that the Order was expecting him to. One day he would have a son, maybe even a grandson and then he would pass on the mantle of the Assassin hunter to them. This visit to New York, the city he had been born in, was his farewell to America and to his past. After that he would return to England, he decided. Maybe he would finally find it in himself to settle down. Maybe he would finally retire, although he had never seen himself retire. Maybe he would sail the seven seas until he would die at the wheel.

In the early morning dusk, his feet led him through the dirty and almost completely discarded streets of New York and while he briefly noticed how much the city had grown since he had last seen it, he found himself not caring too much for all of this change any longer. Years ago, he might have felt different about the change that the city was going through. He would have maybe stopped in awe and devoted his time to make himself familiar with this new town again before doing anything else. He was an old man now and he had learned that change was inevitable and that he would waste his entire life in trying to keep up with it. The American revolutionary war was over.  But Shay had seen too many wars and too many revolutions to know that this peace would not hold long now. There was already a new revolution brooding in Europe. And even here in America, the next war seemed to be right around the corner. The American people now needed to fend for themselves. It had been easy to argue and fight in their comfortable position as they had still been under Britain's thumb because, despite the war, Britain had supported its children in the wild land. Now the support was gone. America was alone now and soon the people would understand how much harder their lives would be from now on. It was only a matter of time until they would fight again and this time against each other. Brother against brother, friend against friend, father against son. A civil war would rip this country apart again. This was just how history always played out. They had seen it in Europe, they would see it here.

His feet almost automatically carried him to his destination. The graveyard was still small and had not changed much since he had last been here. Once upon a time, his parents had been buried here, but that was a long time ago and surely their graves were already nonexistent anymore. His parents were not the reason he came to the graveyard anyway and yet Shay Cormac felt himself pausing for a moment as he entered the graveyard and saw a figure in the foggy air of these early morning hours.

The air was crisp and told from an upcoming cold front that would bring heavy snowfall and ice soon. First, he thought the person to be a ghost, but their silhouette was quite real when Shay crept a little bit closer, careful to be as silent as he could. This was something he would never unlearn as it seemed. His Templar brothers sometimes even mocked him and told him that he would never not be at least partially an Assassin and Shay had learned not to argue with them. It was true, after all. He could not help what he was. The Assassin was still in him and that was what made him the most deadly hunter the Templar Order had ever had.

The figure that stood in the middle of the graveyard was unmistakably male, tall and muscular. It did not take him long to make out the familiar robes of the Assassin with the pointed white hood covering his head and casting long shadows over his face. The man had the bulky figure of a brown bear, but somehow he did not seem threatening at all how he just stood there in complete silence in the middle of the graveyard.

Shay knew who the man was and he knew whose grave it was in front of which he was standing in silence. For a moment he thought back to the stories he had heard years ago, about the beast that had slain their brothers in America. The thought made him smirk as he watched the man from a distance. He already knew that the Assassin had sensed his presence. Connor Kenway seemed to be many things, but most certainly not a beast. He was not even as large as Shay had always imagined him to be. The tales that were told about him were extreme but the man who stood there was not. He was not even _that_ tall, or at least not taller than his own father.

Haytham Kenway's grave was well maintained, as he could see from his position on the graveyard and he wondered if the remaining Templars were responsible for keeping it this way. There were not flowers adorning the grave and the headstone was simple.  He was dead for three years now and Charles Lee had followed shortly after in the autumn of 1782, two years ago. Both of them had been buried in America where they had died, despite that Shay would have rather had it that Haytham would have been brought back home one last time to rest with his family. Instead, his body remained here where his son was. Maybe he had wanted it this way. He had known Haytham well enough to know that behind his cold exterior there had been a warm heart. Haytham had been a violent and ruthless man but he had not been without love. Perhaps he had wanted to stay in America so that his son would have a place to go to. Or, his inner cynic offered, the Templar Order had just not cared enough to bring him home.

From afar Shay could not hear if the man was talking and he could not see if his lips were moving either as he was standing with his back towards Shay. And while a part of him did not want to interrupt the man in whatever he did there, the louder part of his mind was selfish and wanted to step closer so he could bid his late Grand Master farewell for good. This was the last thing he wished to do before he would leave America once and for all.

He had left England without reporting to his higher ups because he knew that he would have been forbidden from going back. He was aware of the danger at hand especially now that he would meet the man who had destroyed his work face to face. But it was worth the risk, he decided. He had always followed his guts and he had never been betrayed by them.

The young man acted as if he had not noticed Shay, but the Templar knew that this was not so. Slowly Connor brushed off his hood to reveal his tuft of dark hair. Despite the fact that Connor seemed to be just as aware of his presence as a deer was aware of the presence of a hunter right before the deadly shot would be delivered, Shay did not stop. Instead, he confidently strode towards the grave, his eyes set upon the headstone. It was odd, really. He thought he would feel the urge to kill the Assassin who had killed his Grand Master and destroyed the Colonial Order, but he did not feel this urge any longer. He had thought the old need to kill all Assassins would come up again if he would ever meet this Assassin of whom he had heard so much in the past years and whose name was even spoken in Paris with great respect, but it did not.

Standing beside the young Assassin, he did not feel hate and he could not say that he had ever felt hatred towards any Assassin anyway. It had not been hate pushing him forward. Now this boy who stood beside him was building up again what he had destroyed over twenty years ago and it seemed like a cruel joke that the son of his grandmaster, the son of the man who had helped him destroy the Brotherhood, would turn to the one Assassin Shay had shown mercy to against Haytham's will and would turn out to be their greatest enemy. He would have laughed under different circumstances. As a young man he might have felt quite bitter about those things, but now being older and wiser he could understand that this simply was how the world functioned. His time was over and it was the boy's time to shine until another one would destroy everything he had built up. And like that, it would always go on and on and on. The wheel would keep on turning.

But up until then, they were just two men standing in front of this grave and thinking about a man they had both cared for, even loved in some regard. They stood beside each other, not Templar or Assassin, but two human beings united in grief.  

What purpose did all of this even have? Shay clearly could not say it and he was too old to care really. But he could say that he did not wish this boy dead and that he did not regret having shown mercy to Achilles. The old man had trained this young man to be a good person. Sure, the Templars told dark tales about the monster that he was, but Shay had heard many good things about him too and this kid did not need him to see his life in ruins apparently. Misery was following him around already, that Shay could see on his face as he shortly glanced at him. His dark eyes were deep like pits and haunted by the past. He was quite familiar with the look of this young lad, for it was what he had seen for quite some time when he would have looked in the mirror, tormented by the guilt he had felt after killing his childhood friend and after killing Hope. The Assassin was not a monster. The deadly blow he had delivered to his father and thus to the Order, had not been delivered out of hatred.

The Assassin's eyes remained on his father's tombstone. There were no tears on his face, but Shay could see that he was holding a piece of fabric and an old book close to his chest with his left hand and he felt as though there was no need to rub salt in his wounds anymore.

They stood in silence for quite some time, Templar and Assassin side by side without killing each other in front of the tombstone of a man who had shaped their lives in quite different but none the less important ways. Shay did not know how Haytham's last days had played out or what the man had thought in the moment of his death. He knew from Lee's letters what had happened and unlike Lee, he did not think that Haytham had only wanted to protect Charles and the Order in sending him away. Unlike Charles, he was aware that Haytham had certainly known that he would not survive when he would confront his son for the last time and Shay was sure, knowing Haytham quite a bit, that he would not have wanted to survive this fight anyway. Surviving a fight with his own son would have meant his son's death and even though one could say many things about Haytham Kenway and his rather cold and sometimes cruel attitude, killing his own son was no crime he would have committed or lived with.

Shay almost expected it to start raining while he stood here and collected his thoughts, but it did not. The weather seemed not willing to give him an excuse to leave again without saying a thing and somehow it would have seemed cowardly anyway if he would not use the chance to talk to this young man even if it would just be one or two words. »Shay Patrick Cormac.« He finally introduced himself to the Assassin after they had stood like this for what felt like hours.

At first, the Assassin did not reply and just kept standing there, before he finally turned his gaze and then his body towards Shay. For the first time, it struck Shay how very much this boy looked like his father and on the same instant how very few things they had in common at all.

The Assassin, however, extended his right hand for him to shake as if it was the most normal thing for them to do as if there were not centuries lying between them of war and bloodshed. There was no anger or hatred in his eyes towards him, although Shay was quite sure that this young man knew who he was – or at least that he was a Templar, as was evident by the clothes he wore. »Connor Kenway.« The young man said as Shay took his hand to shake it curtly. It felt odd, but when they later split paths Shay felt as though he was finally able to settle down.

He had played his part and now this young man needed to play his part and maybe collect some more scars.

 

**\- End of Part II -**


	7. Epilog

Haytham Kenway was fond of creeping through the large house and find places he usually was not allowed to go to. He was fond of sitting on dusty floorboards to play with his tin soldiers in the warm light of the sun when it would shine through some window and heat up the wooden floor. His mother was not as fond of him doing exactly that. He would hear her calling out for him from somewhere inside the house and he would find joy in hiding from her just enough to make it a little harder for her to find him. Sometimes he would even go so far in this little game, that she would call for his father who would be working outside or down in the basement. Unlike his mother, his father would always find him. He could not hide from him because his father knew every nook and cranny of the house.

But when his father would find him, he would either throw him over his shoulder to deliver him back to his mother or, if his mother was especially angry, he would help him to sneak out through the window and onto a tree. His mother would always be mortified when she would see him climb a tree, but his father had taught him and did not worry as much as her. He always told her that, _if he gets hurt, he will learn something from it_. Only once Haytham had broken his arm as he had fallen down a tree. His mother had yelled at his father for hours as the doctor had fixed his arm. Of course, it had hurt and sometimes his right arm still itched a little when it grew cold outside, but later his father had told him what he had done wrong and how to prevent himself from hurting himself like this again. The weeks he had not been allowed to use his right arm, he had then learned to write with his left hand. Now he could even throw a ball with his left hand decent enough.

He had also learned that getting hurt was sometimes not all bad and that even adults sometimes got hurt when they would not be careful. The only difference between him getting hurt and needing to rest and his father getting hurt and needing to rest was, that his father became whiny when he was not allowed to do the things he usually did.

»Haytham Kenway!« His mother shouted again and her voice resonated through the entire house as if it would bounce off the white walls of the hallway and fill every room like an alarm bell. »Come down here this instant young man!« Well, as long as she did not use his full name, she was not angry enough, he supposed as he silently crept through the upstairs room. Maybe he should not have made that mess in the kitchen, he briefly wondered as he sneaked into his father's library upstairs. He never went in here. He did not like the smell of the old books, but sometimes he would find his father here, sitting in an old armchair and pinning a letter he had received to a table with a knife. His mother hated that he was doing this, but his father would just shrug his shoulders and tell her that this was how it had always been. Unlike his mother, his father was not very materialistic and he did not much care for that stupid old table. He had many books though and quite a few expensive looking painting hanging inside the house. Most of the paintings depicted famous sea battles or ships.

He could hear his mother walking towards the staircase and so he hurried to silently close the door of the library behind himself before he hurried to find a place to hide. He would usually stay at the front of the room, but now he hid behind one of the large bookshelves. From the window here he would be able to see the cove and his father's ship, but he was not tall enough to see if from his position. It was frustrating to be so little sometimes. Then again, he was only five years old and his father always told him that he still had a lot of growing to do. Maybe one day he would be as tall as his father and his mother only would roll his eyes when he would say that. _As long as you won't fall out of your bed like your father always does, you can grow as tall as him as far as I am concerned._ Haytham had started falling out of his bed during his sleep last summer.

»Haytham!« His mother's voice was now sharp as a razor. She was in a bad mood almost constantly by now. Haytham blamed the baby she was carrying, his mother would blame his father though and his father would put the blame on the moon. He had no clue why, though.

For the first time in his life, Haytham noticed that he really had never seen the entire library. A few years ago, when he had still been a baby, his father had built an extension to the house, another room downstairs to house the growing family and upstairs he had extended the library - just a bit. His father had later transferred his office from downstairs to this extension to make room for a sitting room downstairs. His mother had been adamant that they needed something like this.

In the back of the room, where his father's new office was, he found a large oil painting that he had never seen before, hanging right overhead his father's desk that was facing the wall. There was a large book lying open on the desk and sometimes he saw his father writing into it. Now, as he climbed on his father's chair, he saw a smaller book, clad in black leather lying on the desk too. There was a monogram edged into the leather. _H. E. K._ Haytham had no clue what it meant, but it seemed to be a diary.

For a long moment, Haytham found himself just staring at the painting, though. It was a portrait of a man with pale skin and piercing blue eyes, just like his own. His skin was not pale, though. The man had dark hair and was wearing a funny hat, his expression was serious and distanced.

»Well, well, snooping around I see.« He had not even heard his father entering the room and he had not noticed how he had sneaked up on him. All the more Haytham now jumped as his father suddenly grabbed him by the waist and lifted him up from the chair. »What now, Haytham?« He grinned at his prisoner. »What did you do this time? Your mother is furious.«

Haytham felt the heat creeping into his cheeks and over his neck. He had never been a good liar and especially not in the face of his father. »I spilled the flour.«

»So why didn't you clean it up then?«

»I tried.«

»But?«

»I made it worse.« For a moment his father said nothing and just looked at him with an almost unreadable expression before a little smirk pulled on his lips.

»You really are my son, aren't you?« He then sighed and moved Haytham so that he could almost comfortably sit on his left hip, supported by his father's strong arms. He was wearing those funny white robes again, but to Haytham this was almost normal although he hardly saw anyone else dressed like this. Well, his father's friends were dressed similarly when they would come to visit them here. He wondered when Eseosa would come to visit them next. He liked playing with him.

»Who is this man, Raké:ni?« Haytham then asked to distract his father from the chaos he had caused downstairs. His father followed his pointing finger towards the painting and for a short moment his smirk vanished, but when he looked at Haytham again he smiled. There was something else in his brown eyes though that Haytham could not yet fully understand.

»That's your grandfather.« He replied. »The one you got your name from.« His father then explained with a faint grin.

»Is he dead?« Haytham asked, now in awe that, for the first time, he had a face to the name. His father did not speak often about his own parents but when he did he would look sad, but he would always come up with a fun little story about them.

»Yes, he died a long time ago, Pumpkin.« He replied but he smiled again as he brushed his large fingers through Haytham's long dark hair.

»Do I have anything from him?« He was curious of course now that he saw his grandfather for the first time.

»You got your eyes from him, I guess.« His father laughed. Well, it had to be true, hadn't it? His mother's eyes were gray, not blue, his father's eyes were brown and his eyes were blue. Weird. »But you have your great-grandfather's sense of making chaos.«

Suddenly Haytham felt the level of excitement in his chest rise again as he stared at his father with large eyes and pulled a little on his father's white jacket. »The pirate?« He squealed. Oh, he had heard stories of him! His father had told him that his grandfather had been a pirate once! To Haytham that was more than exciting, to his mother that was something a gentleman would never talk about.

»Yes« His father replied with a chuckle. »The pirate. I have his jolly roger, you know?«

»Really?« Haytham gasped. To him, it almost felt as if his father was telling him that he had a gold treasure hidden somewhere in their basement. He had never understood why his mother was so against it that his father would tell him about his great-grandfather. He and the other kids would always play pirates when they would go down into the bay. Hunter always was the captain, though because he was the oldest of them. His father had once built them a little pirate ship out of a broken down dinghy and an old rudder as a mast. Their ship, the Jolly Roger, was secured on land, but it was their ship nonetheless. The others would not believe their eyes if Haytham would be able to bring them a real Jolly Roger! Maybe he would get to be Captain then, just like his father.

»Of course. Wanna see it?«

 

**\- End of Epilog -**

 


End file.
